The Next Best Thing (12 page)

The day following Labor Day was business as usual.

The first half of the day was spent running around town getting things in order for The March of Dimes' five-hundred-dollar-a-plate fundraiser that is scheduled for next February. The day had been so hectic, it wasn't until two o'clock that my assistant and I managed to squeeze in time for lunch at the Peachtree Restaurant, located in the Power & Light District.

Our waiter was a good-looking black guy in his mid-twenties, with high energy and enthusiasm.

“You ladies ready to order?” he asked, filling our water glasses.

“I'll have the sweet tea, rotisserie chicken, and a house salad,” I said, handing him my menu.

“And you?” he asked Erin, who was studying the menu as if it were a textbook.

“I've never had soul food before,” she said. “What do you suggest?”

“Well, my favorites are the baby back ribs, macaroni and cheese, and sweet potatoes,” he answered.

“Then that's what I'll have,” Erin decided, and as she handed the waiter her menu, I noticed that the two of them were eyeballing each other flirtatiously.

While waiting for our food to arrive, I took out my iPhone to do some multitasking.

“Erin, I got an e-mail here from the Susan G. Komen Foundation, saying that they are still waiting to receive those vendor invoices.”

“Oh!” she gasped. “I had so much going on this morning, it completely slipped my mind.”

“That's unacceptable,” I said. “Erin, you can't keep dropping the ball on important tasks. Do you know how unprofessional that makes us look?”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'll take care of it as soon as we get back to the office.”

“Okay, and what was the figure that Harrison Floral gave us earlier today?”

“You mean the first florist we visited?”

“Yes…” I said, trying to maintain the utmost patience. Erin is a nice girl, but being related to Sophie is the only thing that has kept her ass from being fired.

Erin flipped through her notebook, and looked at me like a two-year-old who had just pooped on herself. “I don't have that number here.”

“Erin you were supposed to be taking notes.”

“I know, I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm going to get better at this, I promise.”

“Don't be sorry,” I said. “Just remember that in order to be successful in this business, you have to write everything down, then make sure you have everything in writing.”

“Will do,” Erin promised, holding up the Girl Scout sign.

After lunch, our hunk of a waiter brought us the check, and Erin whispered, “He's a cutie pie, isn't he?”

“Very nice,” I had to admit. “But most restaurant servers are aspiring to be something else, and I prefer men who already know what they want to be when they grow up.”

“I wasn't talking about for you.”

“Uh, oh!” I said. “Is the little country girl from Omaha crossing over to the dark side?”

“Maybe…” she said with a sly wink. “I'm going to write ‘call me' on my business card and leave it along with the tip.”

“That's a bold move,” I said. “But you know what they say about going black.”

“That's what I heard,” Erin said in such a sassy way, it made me wonder if there was more to my unassuming assistant than meets the eye.

Outside of the Peachtree Restaurant, Erin and I were walking to my Navigator, when we were accosted by a homeless man.

“Miss Ladies, Miss Ladies…anything you can spare would be a big help,” he said, pitifully.

Erin gave the man a handful of change, but I rushed past him and said, “Sorry, I don't carry cash.” As I did, our eyes locked for a split second, and I realized that there was something vaguely familiar about this guy.

I did a double-take, and so did he.

“James?” I asked, my jaw dropping.

“Tori Carter?” he asked with a rotten-toothed smile. James was my high school sweetheart and the first man besides my daddy that I ever loved with all my heart. He looked something like El DeBarge, left a lingering trail of Cool Water cologne everywhere he went, and was Kennedy High School's all-star wide receiver.

Neither of our parents approved of the relationship.

They tried numerous times to break us up and keep us apart, but like Romeo and Juliet, all that adversity made us love each other even more.

It was the two of us against the world, and no one was going to stop us from getting married right after graduation. In fact, I was so determined to become Mrs. Crawford that I was seriously considering turning down the full college scholarship I had earned so that I could stay in town close to my man.

James saved up his McDonald's paychecks to buy my ring. It was a quarter of a carat cluster—nothing but diamond dust really. But I thought it was beautiful.

Somehow, my parents got a whiff of my plans to ditch college and before I knew it, I was shipped off to Kansas University so fast I didn't even have time to pack properly let alone say good-bye to James.

I cried the ugly cry, all the way up to the Lawrence campus. “But, Daddy, I love him!” I wailed.

Daddy looked back at me in the rearview mirror, but was nonplussed. “That's okay, goddamnit,” he said. “You'll get over it.”

James and I put up a valiant effort to stay in touch, but the relationship eventually died a slow death.

Many years later, here I was face-to-face with my first love, who happened to be wearing a filthy plaid jacket, tattered jeans, and a pair of Air Force One Nikes that had definitely seen better days. “Damn girl, you got big!” he told me. “How many kids you got now?”

Life had obviously not been kind to James, yet it was amazing that he still had enough nerve to clown me about my weight.

Ain't that a bitch?

“Yeah, I packed on a few pounds,” I said. “But what the hell happened to you?”

James's smile faded and his shoulders slumped.

“Life,” he said stoically before walking away. “Life…”

 

No matter where you go, there you are.—Confucius

WEDNESDAY

Seeing James today drove home the point of an article I read in O Magazine recently. Or maybe it was Essence. Anyway, some psychologist was saying that whenever a breakup occurs, nine times out of ten, it is for the best. Yeah, it hurts like hell at first, but you should take some comfort in the fact that when the smoke clears, the next man you get into a relationship with is going to be a step up from the last one. For example, list every guy you ever loved in chronological order.

If you are truly learning and evolving as you should be, then you should be able to go down that list and see where each man in your past was always better than the one before him.

1) James

2) Shane

3) Vincent

4) Joseph

5) Roland

I can definitely see the pattern. Now, there wasn't always a huge step up from one man to the next, but it was a step up nevertheless.

It felt like déjà vu all over again. For the second weekend in a row, Nadia showed up at my door trying to convince me that hitting the town with her was the answer to what she perceives to be my depression over man troubles.

“Nadia, baby, I know you have ADD, but try to stay with me, okay?” I said, grabbing her face with both hands and looking her square in the eyes. “I'm fine, alright? I have a lot coming up at work this week, and I just want to relax and recharge my batteries. 'Kay?”

Nadia removed my hands from her face and said, “Bullshit! You can lie to me all you want, but at least have the dignity not to lie to yourself.”

“Make that the last time you ever try and psychoanalyze
anybody
,” I laughed. “Because you have the most issues of anybody I know.”

“Don't hate me because I live an adventurous life,” Nadia said defensively.

“Sweetie, you're thirty-one years old, and at your age, packing up everything and following some man wherever he leads is not adventurous, it's just plain stupid,” I said.

The girl is like a gypsy. Eight cities in thirteen years is a horrible track record, but she goes wherever her heart leads her, which is usually influenced by some smooth-talking charmer she hasn't known for very long.

I had obviously struck a nerve, because Nadia haughtily flipped her long black hair, and gave me the stank-eye.

“Anyway!” she said. “We are not talking about me, we're talking about you, so come on and get dressed. We're going out.”

“No!” I said, waving her off. “My hair is a mess, and I don't have a thing to wear.”

“Now you know I know better than that. There's more designer shit in your closet than in mine, and that's saying something!”

“They're mostly work clothes, not party clothes,” I said. “Which reminds me, when am I getting back my Armani blouse that you borrowed?”

“Soon…it's at the dry cleaners. Now, come on, because we're going dancing and we're gonna meet some men,” Nadia said, doing a little two-step.

I wasn't stoked.

Meeting men in clubs is not a big draw for me. Mainly because I have exchanged phone numbers with lots of guys in many a club over the years, and have never had a decent relationship come from any of those encounters. I may have dated someone for a week or two, or even a month or two, but in the end, it never pans out.

So now, I am wise enough to know that you flirt with these guys and have fun with them for
the night
, and that's it. After the club, meet him at the Waffle House and let him treat you to breakfast, but you do not take him home with you, and you definitely don't go home with him.

It is never worth it.

“Nadia, I'm trying to avoid bullshit-ass men, not draw them to me. Besides, decent men don't hang out in clubs. Especially if they're over thirty-five.”

“Normally that would be the case, but tonight we're going where the ballers are,” Nadia said, rubbing her hands with glee. “I'm talking about NFL, MLB, and NBA, baby!”

Nadia tried to pull me to my feet, but her little size-four body was no match for my solid 146-pound frame.

“Seriously Nadia, I'm sitting this one out,” I said, firmly planting my feet on the floor. “Go 'head now!”

Nadia sighed, just as exasperated with me as I was with her. “What is it, movie night again?” she asked.

“Yep!” I said. “Tonight is a celebration of the musical. I got
Dreamgirls
,
Chicago
, and
Hairspray
.”

“I thought you might say some shit like that. That's why I brought reinforcements.” Nadia opened the door for Simone and Yvette, who were standing on the other side dressed to impress, and ready to party.

Initially, Yvette, Nadia, and Simone only knew each other through me, but now the four of us are such a cohesive unit, it feels like we all grew up together.

“Diva squad to the rescue!” Simone said, wafting in wearing her usual colorful, neo-soul garb. Tonight she wore an ethnic-inspired sundress, matching head wrap, and ballerina flats.

“That's right, so off your ass and on your feet!” Yvette ordered, and I had to blink a few times to get my eyes adjusted to the rock-star getup she was wearing.

It looked like Yvette had gone on a shopping spree in Macy's junior's department. Her outfit consisted of low-rise jeans, high-heeled clogs, a rhinestone belly chain, and a tight midriff T-shirt that said “Hot Chick” across the front of it. Clearly, she had forgotten that she is thirty-four years old and that her size (eighteen) equals her daughter's age.

It was useless to continue arguing. Not only was I outnumbered, but Nadia was already popping the top on one of the many bottles of Veuve Clicquot Champagne I had left over from the wedding; and once that girl gets in party mode it's like trying to stop a freight train with a caution sign.

“Okay, everybody listen up!” I said. “I will agree to go out with you heifers on one condition—”

“Which is?” Simone asked.

“That there be no talk about Roland, weddings, or anything related to any of the above,” I said.

“Deal!” they shouted in unison. Probably because I have already talked their ears off enough about that whole situation.

“We will definitely drink to that,” Nadia said, handing each of us a glass of champagne. “Let's just enjoy the night and each other, okay, ladies?”

“Agreed!” the four of us said, as we clinked glasses.

My only thought as the divas ushered me into my bedroom to help me get dressed was that it was going to be one
hell
of a night. These women were already high energy enough, but when you added alcohol to the mix, watch out! Ain't no party like a diva squad party 'cause a diva squad party don't stop!

 

We all said that we were down for whatever, and Yvette took full advantage of that by insisting that we go to Club Heifers, her favorite nightspot. The number one rule at Heifers is that you have to be at least a size fourteen to get in, hence the name.

This weight requirement was not a problem for Yvette, but I'm a size twelve. Nadia and Simone are sizes four and eight respectively, which added together don't even add up to fourteen.

“Sorry ladies,” a bald, hulking doorman said to Nadia and Simone. “Fourteen and up, only!”

Yvette sidled up to the guy, and purred, “Come on, Eugene. These are my girlfriends.”

Eugene pocketed the twenty-dollar tip Yvette gave him, and violà! We all gained entry past the velvet rope.

Inside Club Heifers, the ratio was around two hundred women to twenty men. And they weren't even quality men at that. The chubby-chasers were all either over fifty, overweight themselves, unattractive, short, nerdy, creepy, or some combination of the above.

Nadia, Simone, and I might as well have been invisible. The only attention we got was from some of the other heifers, who kept shooting us dirty looks, angry that skinny bitches were infringing upon their territory.

Yvette, on the other hand, was the belle of the ball up in there. She was out on the dance floor doing her signature dance move, which is to twirl her wide hips in a suggestive manner, and spank her own ass.

No sooner had she finished dancing with one guy than another would come and take his place.

“Look at her,” Simone said with distaste. “Carrying on like that old bitch in the club, who we all said we'd never be.”

“She's just making up for lost time,” I said. “She'll be alright once she gets it all out her system.”

Yvette became a mother at seventeen, and now that Alicia is on her way to college in the fall, Yvette is going through a phase where it is all about her.

After dancing six songs straight, Yvette finally left the dance floor and joined us at our table.

“Why am I the only one out there dancing?” she asked, patting her perspiration with a cocktail napkin.

“Because these men are here to get their big girl fantasies fulfilled,” I said. “And nothing else will do.”

“You got that right!” Yvette laughed facetiously. “Skin and bones ain't on the menu up in here, baby!”

“Whatever!” Nadia said, taking offense. “All I know is that I'm picking the next spot.”

“Okay, this is what we're going to do,” I said. “Tonight, each of us gets to pick a spot.”

“That could take until the wee hours of the morning,” Simone protested.

“Well, we're out here now, so we might as well make it an all-nighter,” I said, surprising everybody, including myself.

“Uh oh, listen to you!” Yvette said. “It damn near took an act of Congress to get your ass out of the house, and now you wanna party all night long.”

“My girl!” Nadia said, slapping me a high five. “Let's get out of here, and let me show you ladies how I get down.”

The four of us jumped back into my Navigator, and ended up downtown at Club Suede, where the atmosphere was so festive we all came to the unanimous decision that no other stops would be necessary; this was where we would be partying for the rest of the night.

Club Suede is a nightspot that prides itself on being the plushest club in the city, which caters exclusively to the grown and sexy. The club is practically Nadia's second home, and she led the way to the VIP area where we were seated in a plush, semicircular banquette.

“Jill, could you start us off with a round of mai tais please?” Nadia asked the hostess.

“You got it, girl,” Jill answered, and was back in less than three minutes with a tray of frothy, fruity concoctions served in super-sized glasses.

The drinks were so strong that not even ten minutes later, Yvette suddenly shouted for no reason, “Roland is a god-damned fool!”

“There she goes…” Simone said, referring to the fact that Yvette was becoming increasingly agitated, which is how she always gets whenever she's had too much to drink.

“It's okay, baby.” I patted Yvette's hand, trying to calm her ass down. “Let it go.”

“I mean, I wonder what possesses a nigga to do some stupid, disrespectful shit like that?” Yvette said.

I looked at Nadia and Simone, incredulous. “Didn't we agree not to make this a topic of discussion?”

Nadia shrugged and rolled her eyes. “You know how she is when she gets to drinking.”

“
She
has been drinking, but
she
ain't that damn drunk. Stop talking about me like I ain't here,” Yvette said, and then belched.

“Hell, we know you're here with your loud ass mouth,” Nadia shouted over the music.

“Never mind all that,” Simone said to me, raising her glass in the air. “Tori, my sister, here's to strength, courage, and the birth of possibility.”

We all toasted to that. I thought it was sweet, but Yvette snickered and shook her head.

“Girl, you need to light an incense and go meditate somewhere.” Yvette laughed in Simone's face. “That Sister Souljah unity act is getting on my
last
nerve.”

“All right now,” Simone warned. “Don't let me get started on you.”

“You know better!” Yvette snapped. “Anyway, Tori, you would have been better off if you had married James. Now,
that
motherfucka loved your ass to death! He would have never shit on you the way Roland did.”

“Oh, it's ironic that you brought James up,” I told Yvette. “I ran into him outside of the Peachtree the other day, and guess what? He's a fucking bum! Literally!”

“For real?” Yvette said. “Damn, that's messed up.”

“That just goes to show that all things in the universe are in divine right order,” Simone said. “And every breakup is God's way of saying that he has something better for you somewhere down the line.”

“And that's exactly why I don't sweat none of these knuckleheads,” Nadia said. “If you wanna go, go! 'Cause I'm gonna make damn sure that the next man is better than you anyway!”

“Hear, hear!” Simone raised her glass in agreement.

“Ooh! Y'all let me out, I gotta pee!” Yvette said, scooting her way out of the booth, which caused me and Simone to have to jump up and let her out.

“Can't take her ghetto ass nowhere!” Nadia said.

“I don't know about you ladies, but I feel like dancing,” I said, rocking to the beat of a T-Pain remix.

“Me, too!” Nadia said. “Come on, let's go.”

Simone opted to stay at the table to wait for Yvette, while Nadia and I walked down to the common area, where it was so jam-packed, I was sure some kind of fire law was being violated. The swell of the crowd swept Nadia and me in separate directions, and I spent the next five minutes drifting in a sea of sweaty bodies.